There was always a chance
by DrowinginRedInk
Summary: Lemony Snicket tried to be a noble man. He had done so for most of his life. But no matter what age he was, if he'd been asked he would say that a noble man would have better things to do than to chase a fourteen year old girl around the world.


Lemony Snicket tried to be a noble man. He had done so for most of his life, even as both the faces of wickedness and the definitions of nobility shifted over time. Even when the world at large believed him to be dead and he had no way of disproving the accusations against him, he'd tried, at the very least, to do enough noble deeds to outweigh the damage he'd caused. Even still, a part of him clung to the hope he'd held when he was younger: he was capable of building a better world, even with VFD in ruins, even if no one else dared to try.

But no matter what age he was, if he'd been asked he would say that a noble man would have better things to do than to chase a fourteen year old girl around the world. He'd justified his doing so to others by saying he was chronicling her and her siblings' struggles and the immense amount of evil they faced. But her story hadn't yet proved itself to be one that needed to be told. He chased Violet Baudelaire regardless.

She had grown into the image of her mother. Oh, her father was there, in her height and eyes and the way that she spoke, but so much of her was Beatrice: the dark hair with a slight curl, the lithe, willowy figure, the fearless disposition, and the smile that never failed to make him nervous and elated all at once. It was a smile that could hide so many secrets. A smile that once did, when it was on her mother's face. He still remembered the last time he'd seen it.

He and Beatrice had gone out for coffee, an outing comprised purely of pleasantries. Beatrice pretended she hadn't send that 200 page novel to him a few months before, and pretended that nothing had happened either between her and Lemony or her and Bertrand since it had been sent, even though Lemony knew she had spent plenty of time with both of them. She had spoken about nothing in particular, smiling and laughing, acting the same as always and yet so different. He could sense that under the surface, she was frightened of getting too close, of talking as deeply as they might have otherwise. And there was never once a word about love; not between her and Lemony, not between her and her husband. Both relationships had already gone so horribly wrong, and yet based off what she said, it was nothing at all. In fact, based off her words, nothing was anything.

He could tell from the way she spoke, though, that she was hiding something. There was something she both wanted to tell him and didn't, and that was why she had invited him out after a month of ignoring his calls. Every so often, a pained look would cross her face and he knew she was considering telling him outright. He listened carefully throughout the outing for any sign of coded communication, and even prompted it, in the form of the Sebald code, by commenting on her wedding ring. But she had immediately ended the message, asking, "my ring?" and her smile had disappeared so quickly. Afterward, he had searched the table furiously for a note, for any sign of hidden communication, and rifled through every one of the pockets of his jacket, hoping she'd slipped something in and he hadn't noticed. But instead, he left the cafe knowing a secret had passed him by.

A few weeks later and she was impossible to contact, not just by Lemony, but by anyone. When it had been half a year since that final date, rumors began to fly, saying she was back but not the same, rumors that often contained Lemony's name. Within a week, the news spread that she had a newborn daughter, and he knew exactly what she had not told him that day at the cafe.

Lemony knew from the beginning that there was a chance. That there had always been a chance. That was why he'd kept away from Beatrice and from Violet for fourteen years. He had never discovered if Bertrand knew about the rendezvous that occurred even after she sent the novel and handed back the engagement ring, when Lemony had desperately tried to string it all out and possess Beatrice for as long as he could. For all he knew, Bertrand had no idea and had never doubted his wife's fidelity. But now, every time Lemony looked at Violet it was clear. She had her mother's hair and figure, her smile and charm, but she had her father's tall frame and the eyes that had been so bright on him, until circumstances came and took their light away. It was so incredibly obvious to Lemony—she did not have a drop of Bertrand's blood in her entire body.

Despite his attempts at nobility, he longed to steal away Violet, to selfishly remove her and only her from the mysteries that were everywhere they turned, and to tell her the truth. But he was a volunteer, and it was bad enough that he and Beatrice had kept their secrets, the things they did behind Bertrand's back. He knew that she cared about her siblings, and would want to stay by their sides even if she learned they only shared a mother. And she was young; the young were never content to remove themselves and not ask questions. She would ask the wrong questions, and he wouldn't have the answers. She would leave him to seek them out, learning too late that there weren't any.

So he stayed in the distance and watched his daughter grow up from afar, despite how she faced more wickedness with every passing day. Though she had no way of knowing it, she was happier that way. No girl her age would want to know the truth about her parents once they were long gone. Why spoil their memory by telling her that when she was conceived her mother was having an affair, that her late father was her stepfather, that nothing was as simple as it had seemed? Beatrice had always preferred to know the truth about everything, but Violet was not Beatrice. Besides, if Beatrice really believed in showing children the secrets of the world, she wouldn't have hidden Violet's paternity up until her death.

All Lemony wanted was to be a noble man. He knew a noble man wouldn't abandon his daughter, but he also knew he would only hurt her more by being involved. There was no good reason to introduce her to more secrets when her world was already too full of them. So he watched her from the shadows, and he wrote. Perhaps one day, someone else would tell Violet the truth. If she crossed paths with Kit or Jacques, there could be no doubt that they'd spy the resemblance. But he had no desire for Violet to learn what he had fourteen years earlier: Beatrice Baudelaire had not been afraid to keep secrets.


End file.
